Spiralling
by AElfric's Cat
Summary: He never asked for this, but something about the Crow calls to Arlyan's soul. Can he learn to give, and can they both learn to love? Follows the tangled relationship between Arlyan Tabris & Zevran Arainai. m!Tabris/Zevran. Pre-slash leading to slash.
1. Spiralling Down

**Spiralling: A Dragon Age: Origins fanfic.**

Disclaimer: _I don't own Dragon Age. Dragon Age: Origins, the darkspawn, Alistair, Sten, Morrigan and Zevran all belong to Bioware. Arlyan is mine, and so too, I think, is the Archdemon – what a combination!_

_Many thanks to __**dannyfranx**__ and __**Sara's Girl **__for being supportive, constructively critical and generally fabulous, and also to __**AlmightyGamer**__ on deviantArt for proof-reading – love you guys!_

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He saw the tarnished bridge of the Black City stand defiantly above him. The stone was dark and broken, covered in the black blood of those who had gone before. And died. Crowning the cold stone, a dragon thrashed in rage and jubilation. A dark beacon above the flames of the deep roads, she surveys her legions moving closer towards her, the roar of her dark armies below spiralling into ecstasies of gluttonous desire. She arches her neck to survey her troops, a cold wave sweeps over him. Her serpentine eyes narrow and it feels as though she is waiting. Waiting for – she whips her head around to stare spheres of malice right into his eyes. Her look is one of poisonous victory as she throws her head back and lets out a cackling roar, shaking the foundations of the dark bridge and causing the depraved multitude below to pause in their twisted devotions. She chuckles and, stretching forward, covers him in a roaring, burning wall of baleful flame. Falling, he hears her terrible, mocking voice as he fades into insensibility: "I know you, Warden."

_x.x.x.x.x_

Arlyan awoke with a start. He ran a hand over his eyes, pushing his long black braids out of his face. Sitting up, he carefully peeled back the folds of his tent to look for Alistair. The elf breathed a small sigh of relief as he saw no sign of his friend emerging from slumber. If Alistair hadn't had the same dream then it wasn't a reaction to the Archdemon – just a twisted creation of his own mind. He smiled to himself – just an ordinary nightmare. No dramatic portents, no omens from a mysterious taint – just a dream.

Fully awake, he decided that a quick check of the camp boundaries wouldn't hurt, just in case. Arlyan pulled on his boots, slung his sword sheath over his back, and silently left his tent. Away from the dying light of the smouldering campfire, the night forest whispered solace into his mind. He always felt a small spark of wonder when they camped in the forest – a remnant of the city elf who used to dream of the Dalish in the mythical wilds. Passing under the sighing branches he thought of the distance he had come since the Alienage. The sullen elf child was a memory of the distant past now. Strangely, he found himself thinking of his mother. He wondered if Adaia had intended for his path to be woven this way.

A strange noise pulled him out of his reverie. A ways off, he could hear a singing sound out of tune with the song of the forest. A metallic sound, sharp and alien. His senses focused, he stalked forward, moving closer to the noise. As he closed the distance he knew it was the sound of a blade. In the twilight ahead of him he could just make out a lithe figure holding an outstretched sword. Silently, Arlyan wondered if he had been too quick to dismiss his nightmare. Something which shouldn't be here was stalking the camp, which seemed too much like strange coincidence. Keeping to the line of the trees so that the forest shadows hid his progress, he edged closer. He noiselessly drew his own blade from its sheath in a deadly silence and moved into the longer grass, ready to strike.

The figure was coming into focus now. Clearly no darkspawn, the man in front of him wore no armour, and Arlyan could make out the outline of strong arms and a well-muscled torso. No easy prey here; this person was clearly trained. Arlyan adjusted his path to move behind the figure and tensed, ready to take him down quickly. Primed, he launched into his strike and the moon shone free of the clouds. Arlyan saw the Crow lines on the man's face, and checked his thrust just in time to avoid a killing blow. Shaken, sultry eyes looked straight at him, "I know you, Warden."

Caught off guard, Arlyan stumbled back into the long grass. _Those words... the dream... no, it couldn't be... _Zevran stepped towards him, his eyes a little wide, "Careful, Warden!" Too late, Arlyan saw the rusty trap hidden in the grass next to him and gasped as it snapped closed around his calf.

_x.x.x.x.x_

"Zevran, I'm fine. I really don't think this is necessary."

"Ah, well, in that case, perhaps I should let go and you can hobble off unaided, hmm?" The Crow had wrapped the Warden's arm over his shoulders and was holding him around his waist to keep him upright.

"Please. It's humiliating enough without me being carried back to my tent in front of everyone else." An amused smile escaped from the corner of Zevran's mouth as the assassin found the Warden's embarrassed discomfort preciously amusing. The hand around his waist started guiding him in a different direction, away from the main camp.

Arlyan was just about to raise the question as Zevran answered with a smirk, "In that case, my good Warden, it is just as well that we are going to my tent instead."

Arlyan stumbled, only to be caught by the safe hands around him.

"But –"

"Warden, you can barely stand. My tent is closer and we can take a look at your leg there. I assure you, my motives in this are quite honourable."

Arlyan let out a defeated sigh. "Okay."

A wide smile spread across Zevran's lips. "Excellent. Though I shall leave it to you to explain to the others what you were doing spending the night topless in my tent when you leave in the morning. I should be very interested in what explanation you come up with."

Arlyan groaned and continued to hobble on with the aid of the assassin, laughing at his side.


	2. Spiralling Softly

_And now, a hefty dose of sensual tension just for you guys! To reiterate the warning on the summary, it's male/male romance. If slash isn't your cup of tea, that's fine_ - _you're not obliged to read it. Clicky the back button and steer well away, but no homophobic flaming please - it's not big and it's not clever. Constructive criticism *always* welcome. _

Disclaimer: _Dragon Age and Zevran belong to Bioware. Arlyan is mine - and I think I might just keep him.  
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_Again thanks to __**dannyfranx**__ and __**Sara's Girl, **__and also __**AlmightyGamer**__ on deviantArt, for being ridiculously awesome. _

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Zevran's tent was sparse but comfortable, with a tumble of luxurious blankets and throws covering the bedroll. As Arlyan sank into the wealth of fabric he raised a questioning eyebrow at the assassin and held up a corner of one of the throws.

"What can I say?" the Crow replied with a smile, "This Ferelden gets so cold. I need to keep warm somehow. Of course, I would prefer a night of intense pleasure and heated naked flesh rather than blankets, but one must take what's available." A mischievous sparkle glowed in the Crow's eyes as an impish grin pulled at the edges of his mouth. Arlyan's returning smile froze on his lips as the assassin lowered himself onto the blankets next to him and slid his hand up his calf. Zevran moved his other hand and tugged off Arlyan's boot, and lowered his foot back onto the blankets. The Warden released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Meeting Zevran's eyes, the assassin looked up at him with a quizzical and amused expression as he gently raised Arlyan's injured leg. His fingers glided lightly over the leather in a feather-like touch as he carefully removed the remaining boot. Arlyan winced as a jolt of pain shot through his leg and he shuddered deeper into the soft blankets below him. Gentle hands delicately examined his calf and Zevran nodded to himself before continuing.

"It is as I thought. Your boot has protected you from most of the damage, but the trap will leave very heavy bruising. And you'll have a lot of muscle strain for a few days." Resting Arlyan's leg in his lap, he arched back to rummage around in a small leather satchel niched behind him.

"A few days?" Arlyan started to pull his leg back in, but a small touch of Zevran's hand on the bridge of his foot halted the movement.

"A-ha...success!" Zevran turned back to face the Warden with a glass jar in his hands. Inside was a strange, murky green paste Arlyan was sure he had no desire to explore further.

He swallowed, and had to ask, "Zevran – isn't that your poisons satchel?"

The Crow froze mid-reach for Arlyan's leg. The Warden watched as the smile died on Zevran's sun-kissed face, a look akin to despair rising behind his eyes. Zevran's jaw tightened as he dropped his gaze to the floor. A quiet voice came from by his feet. "You still think I wish you harm, Warden?"

Arlyan looked into pained, searching eyes and felt himself crumble at what he found there. "Yes. No. I don't know." He sighed and ran both hands through his long black hair. Giving in to the soft blankets behind him, he leaned back into the bedroll and covered his face with pale arms. "I'm sorry."

There was a small movement at his feet and Arlyan jumped as strong hands stroked up and down his calf. He tensed, and looked wild-eyed at the assassin, questioning. Zevran returned the stare, his eyes willing him to calm and accept the touch. Nervously, Arlyan shifted his gaze to his leg and saw the green paste being worked into his calf.

"It is from Antiva," came a husky voice. "We use it for bruises and muscle aches. It will help the pain fade more quickly." Arlyan let go of the tension he had pulled in around himself and surrendered to Zevran's attentions. Zevran's hands were warm and slick with the balm, rubbing slow, firm circles into where the bruises were likely to form. He slid his hands higher up Arlyan's leg, gently kneading the muscles to soothe the strain away.

Arlyan gasped as a particularly painful knot slipped undone under Zevran's touch. Fingers continued to pulse up and over his calf, brushing under the back of his knee all the way down to his ankle. When the massaging reached the arch of his foot, he released a small murmur of pleasure. The touch at his feet suddenly stopped, and he was conscious of the inappropriate nature of such a response under Zevran's well-intended aid. He was about to apologise when the stroke gently continued. Taking care to mind his surroundings better, Arlyan took in the contours of the tent. The blankets and throws seemed the only luxuries in the tent, save for a lingering aroma of sandalwood that he had smelled somewhere before- only here it was a little stronger. Inhaling the scent, he amusedly thought of what explanation he was going to give to the others in the morning. Zevran was right – simply telling the truth would be bad enough on its own merits: got out of bed, had a paranoia attack, nearly killed a topless Zevran, landed in a leg trap, then Zevran carried me back to his tent to rub green gloop all over me so I could walk today... he smiled to himself at the ridiculous irony of it all.

Zevran slowly lowered his leg back onto the blankets, and Arlyan sighed, closing his eyes in contentment. He started to thank the assassin, but was checked by the feeling of his good leg being lifted onto Zevran's lap. Unsure, he raised his head from the blankets to look up at the assassin, a mixture of confusion and trepidation in his eyes. Zevran answered his unspoken question with a look almost identical to his own: equal parts surprise and anxiety, yet with something warm and heated flickering behind it. Still staring into his eyes, Zevran began tentatively wrapping his hands around Arlyan's foot. Putting pressure into his thumbs, he ran them over the ball and arch of his foot, delicately catching the Warden's ankles with his fingertips. Arlyan's head began to swim as he stared at the assassin, sun-kissed and golden in the candlelight, shadows outlining every detail of his form. Something must have shown acquiescence in his eyes as Zevran looked away and became bolder in his attentions.

After the slow, firm strokes on his foot stopped, Arlyan felt a strong hand slip around the back of his ankle and move slowly all the way up to the hollow at the back of his knee in a long, languid stroke that was an unmistakable caress. Hands slipping over him, Arlyan forgot himself and leaned back, stretching into the touch. As he did so, his foot innocently brushed along the top of Zevran's thigh, and the hands on his leg juddered. Startled into remembering where he was and how he got there, Arlyan opened his eyes and, somewhat embarrassed, sought those of the Crow at his feet, waiting for the inevitable smirk. Yet rather than the mischievous amusement he expected to find there, Zevran's eyes had widened, pupils dilated and there was a slight colour rising up the contours of his neck.

Zevran swallowed and started to look away. "I –" he broke off, "Perhaps I should help you back to your tent, Warden."

Dumbfounded, Arlyan checked his initial response and simply nodded. Normally the assassin delighted in twisting innocent situations to innuendo and sexual insinuation. Arlyan had assumed the opportunity to tease him with the double-entendre of it all would have been too delicious an opportunity to pass up. "It's fine, I'll manage. Thank you."

He looked at back at the assassin, and saw a brief wave of sadness cross his face before vanishing in a small, bittersweet smile. A little shaken, and more than a little confused, Arlyan carefully pulled on his boots and cautiously made his way out of the tent, leaving the lingering scent of sandalwood behind him.


	3. Reckless Spirals

_Once my head came up with the song in the middle, I just couldn't let it go. A little reprieve from tension and drama - for a short while at least. Would love to know what you think!_

Disclaimer: _Dragon Age, Zevran and the rest of the motley crew all belong to Bioware. Arlyan is mine. Mine, mine, mine!  
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_Thanks to __**Sara's Girl **__for making sure my readers don't get eye-hurty! Updated for finding a missing "be" towards the end...  
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The camp, for once, seemed calm. The night sky was clear, and a semblance of normality had settled over them as they fell into their evening routine. Morrigan was picking at the dinner Alistair had made for them ("Oh – excellent. Carcass stew. Again."), the firelight outlining every detail of her face, an art form of derision. Purple-framed eyes narrowed as the Wildling caught Arlyan's gaze. A shrug of his shoulders sent long black hair tumbling around his face, and he gave her what he hoped was an innocent smile. She regarded him suspiciously for a moment longer, muttered something under her breath, and scornfully looked away. Somehow, he thought, she always believed the worst about him. But then, he supposed, she did about everyone.

Sten was quietly finishing his stew a small ways off from the others. As always, the huge Qunari ate with a thoughtful expression on his face. As Arlyan studied his hard-lined face, he couldn't be sure if the warrior was contemplative of Ferelden fare in general, or was debating whether Alistair's stew would be best served eaten or buried. The chef in question was sitting on a rough log, facing Arlyan from the other side of the campfire. His eyes were glowing with excitement as he eagerly regaled the elf with tales of the Grey Wardens before Ostagar. His shadow danced in front of Arlyan as he waved his arms around in wild gesticulation to accentuate his ridiculous tales, and the elf smiled to himself. Alistair hadn't been this animated for some time, and he was pleased to see his friend coming back to his usual self once more.

"...and he'd come all the way from the Anderfells! What was his name? Gregor? Grigor? Anyway, he was a burly man with the biggest, fuzziest beard you've ever seen!"

Morrigan snorted into her stew as Alistair re-enacted the famous beard with his hands. Sten let out a sigh and grumbled a disapproving monologue – something about "hopeless" and "darkspawn" – and, possibly deciding on the 'burying' option, turned his back on Alistair's performance of the infamous facial hair.

"...and he drank all the time but never got drunk! Finally we all made a pool to see just how many pints it would take to put him under the table!"

Placing down her bowl and raising her eyes star-ward, Morrigan tutted at the large knight. "Ach, Templars! And just how far did you get on this valiant, heroic quest?"

"Well, he said he'd drink a pint for every half we drank..."

Caught in the warmth of Alistair's company, the elf couldn't help but let his mind wander. Surrounded by the Warden's easygoing tales, Morrigan's familiar faux-bitter banter, and Wulfstan happily wagging his tail, lolled out by the fire at his feet, it was nice to set aside the anxieties of trying to reach Arl Eamon for just a little while. Taking in the warmth of the campfire, Arlyan absent-mindedly wondered where their other companion was. His mind had drifted to contemplate the assassin more than a few times these last couple of days. He hadn't really had the chance to speak to him after that night. He had at least wanted to say thank you, but every time he thought of it, Zevran seemed to be somewhere else. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the Crow might be avoiding him. Once or twice he'd been sure he'd felt the assassin's eyes on him, but every time he looked around he was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't sure what had happened to make Zevran want to avoid him, but he knew he missed the Crow's company.

The wind rustled the canopy above them, and Arlyan wanted to sink into the sound. The glow from the fire and the scents of the forest stilled his mind, and he simply wanted to give in. Just for a short while.

"...and he was still going by the time the rest of us were passed out!" Alistair sighed merrily and wiped a tear of laughter from his eye.

Arlyan made a moment's decision and leaned back on his log, crossing his arms over his chest. A dark smile played at the edges of his mouth, "So. Passed out did you, Chantry boy?"

Alistair stopped mid-chuckle and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?" The blonde warden leaned in towards Arlyan, an unspoken challenge in his mischievous eyes. "Are you saying what I think you're saying? Elf-boy?"

Uncrossing his arms, Arlyan rested his elbow on his knee, balancing his chin on his hand. "Yeah," he said, leaning forwards. "I think I am."

Both men grinned boyishly at each other. Alistair let out a bark of laughter and bent down to rummage in his pack. Pulling out a flask of wine, he slammed it down on the ground by his feet. Wulfstan cocked his head at the Templar and looked from Alistair to his owner. Arlyan dug out a flagon from his own pack, a smile playing on his lips as he placed it at his own feet. A wide grin spread across Alistair's face. "Right," he smiled, "The game is on!"

A small whine came from the Mabari as Wulfstan covered his face with his paws.

_x.x.x.x.x_

Away from the camp, the woods were still in the darkness. Zevran narrowed his brows in concentration as he finished his ritual. Pulling the whetstone along the blade edge, he listened as the steel sang back to him. The song of the sword had always calmed him before. Now the beauty of the blade was marked with the memory of that night. When the Warden had almost killed him.

He completed the ritual with two long strokes, pulling his hands down over the steel. Placing the blade back in its sheath, he sank down beneath the trees. Resting against the heavy bark, he closed his eyes and tilted his head to catch the cool night breeze whispering past him. He had been so close that night, so close. He had seen his death in Arlyan's eyes, saved only at the last instant. As the moon shone down upon him the killing gaze had fled the Warden's face, turning into a look of horror. Fear had mingled with self-loathing in Arlyan's eyes, and in that moment Zevran knew he would never find death at the Warden's hands. And that, he thought, was the whole problem.

Zevran had watched fear flood Arlyan's face as he checked the killing blow. Not fear _of_ Zevran, but rather _for _him—fear that he might have been hurt. And that look had raised a whole new set of possibilities, changed the turn of his world. And then there had come the fall. He had no idea what had terrified the Warden so greatly that he missed a simple leg trap; he had seen Arlyan disable far more subtle traps with ease, but the look of terror that crossed his face as he fell had shaken the Crow's heart. He'd quickly released Arlyan's leg from the trap, and he knew that he would have to carry him back to camp. Something cold had settled within him when he realised the dark elf had lost consciousness. He wasn't sure why, but he had wanted, needed…?, to look after him. At the time, he thought it was scant gratitude for sparing his life – again. But now... it was something else.

The Warden had visibly calmed as they had reached the tent, some of the terror drained from his face. He'd tended to Arlyan as best as he could, but for some reason he couldn't stop. Perhaps it was because of the burning anticipation welling up in his chest. Perhaps it was the small look of disappointment that had swiftly passed over the other elf's face as the touch had ceased. Perhaps it was a need to reassure the Warden, to make him feel safe. Letting out a shaky sigh, the Crow realised that it was all of these things. But most of all, it was the sight of the elf stretched out beneath him, dark hair fanning a pale face, and the languid lines of a narrow, muscled torso sinking into the soft fabric. It was the small moan of pleasure that had slipped from Arlyan's lips and stolen his breath away.

Zevran opened his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. The bark of the tree dug sharply into his back, and he savoured the pain, cursing himself for being three types of fool. The memory of Arlyan writhing deeper into the blankets as he'd given in to his touch had stirred something within him that he hadn't felt for a long time. He knew it had been unfair to send the Warden away, but the realisation of those feelings had unnerved him. And so he had fled, hidden away. Shaking his head to himself, he realised he was behaving like a child. But he had found... something... he wasn't sure what, in those dark eyes that he knew he wanted to find again. Zevran pulled himself up from the ground and dusted the scraps of bark from his back. With a silent resolve, he gathered up his blades and picked his way through the woods to join the camp.

_x.x.x.x.x_

As he saw the campfire ahead of him a terrible sound filled his delicate ears:

"And the Priestess said, 'There's a frog in my bed!', and the priest burst out of the wardrobe... The old chief confessor had hid in her dresser, and came tumbling out with no robes on..."

Alistair. Was singing.

He watched the big Templar sway inelegantly on his log as he warbled out a rather rude drinking song. Arlyan was sitting opposite Alistair trying desperately not to laugh, amusement glittering in the dusk of his eyes. Sten had furrowed his brows in disapproval, leaving a trail of admonishments as he paced indignantly back to his tent. The assassin's presence was announced as Arlyan's Mabari came bounding over to greet him, pressing huge, heavy paws into his shoulders.

"No, hound. No. I do not belong to you. Down. No, down!" He tackled the huge war-hound in a futile attempt to save himself from being covered in slobber.

"Ah, the assassin returns!" Morrigan's bitter voice reached him from across the camp. "So, any news from your assassin, Crow friends? Finally going to finish us off one by one?" She stood by the fire, shadows writhing in her eyes, looking at him with a venom he hadn't seen before. He held her vicious gaze as he stepped closer to the fire, refusing to rise to her taunting. Her look snapped to Alistair as the blonde warden waved at him.

"Zevran! Once you've killed us all, come sit down and have a drink!" He patted a space on the log beside him and placed a flask there for the taking.

"Good," the acid voice continued."You get incapacitated and allow us to be overrun in our beds. Arlyan, surely you're not going to indulge in this idiocy?"

Zevran watched as the Warden, smiling, raised his flagon in her direction. "A toast. To Morrigan! May her sour disposition and exquisitely glowering eyes always serve to dampen the hearts of Wardens and assassins alike!"

Laughing, Alistair responded, "Amen to that!"

With a sour expression on her exquisitely glowering face, Morrigan glared at them and stalked off to her tent. "I told you, you ought to watch her, Arlyan." Alistair cautioned, indicating her tent with his flask. "Remember in the Wilds? Swooping is bad."

Taking another swallow from his flagon, Arlyan pointed at his friend. "She hardly swoops, Alistair. And she's not as bad as you think."

"Gah – you're always defending her. I still say she's a sneaky witch-thief."

Arlyan chuckled, and wiped the corner of his mouth with his wrist. He looked at ease, but Zevran recognised the tension hiding in the shadows of his eyes and knew that it was a struggle for the Warden to let go. Unbidden, the sound of that soft, involuntary moan came to his ears. A slight heat rose up the back of his neck. Perhaps sometimes, he thought, Arlyan could lose control after all. A little self-conscious, Zevran smiled as he gratefully accepted the flask from Alistair and lowered himself to sit on a log in between him and the Warden.

"Okay." Alistair's attempt to sound authoritative was ruined as he squeaked the last syllable. "Here's the plan. I'm going to drink Arlyan under the table. Log. Table. Table-log. Whatever. Hey – guys!" Alistair whined as the two elves chuckled at him.

Arlyan shook his head, and Zevran amusedly tried to recall if he'd ever seen a drunken Templar before. Taking an experimental sip of wine, he tried to catch the two Wardens' attention. "Well, it would appear that I have, thankfully, missed the lewd singing. What torment will we have to endure now?"

Alistair's face took on a juvenile grin, and he laid down his suggestion, "I vote 'Never Ever.' Who's in?" Zevran raised a quizzical eyebrow at the blonde warden, and was met with a look of astonishment. "What! You've never played? And you, coming from the dens of vice and iniquity? I'm appalled. Anyway, it's simple – someone says 'never have I ever', and if you _have_ done what's been said, you're forfeit for a drink. Easy."

"Simple enough. However," Zevran continued, "though far be it from me to need a reason for self-indulgence, I must ask - is there a point to this game?"

"Point?" Alistair laughed, "The point is for me to get our fearless leader mind-numbingly drunk! That's what it is!"

Smiling dark eyes looked over at him, and a warm voice answered, "It's also about getting to know each other a little better." Golden eyes looked searchingly into dusky warmth, and his defences were suddenly broken. He had avoided every chance at being close to the Warden, and now he found himself wanting to share everything, to know everything. Zevran lowered his eyes as the realisation flooded through him; Maker, he was a fool.

Arlyan must have realised something was amiss, as his voice quietened so only Zevran could hear, "If you'd prefer to save it for another night, that's alright you know. It's just Alistair trying to out-man me with his masculine prowess." He looked up, but found no pity or mockery in those eyes. Arlyan smiled, with an acceptance and patience that somehow told Zevran everything he needed to know.

The Crow felt himself smiling back; a genuine smile – the first of such for so long – in answer to the one in the Warden's eyes.

"I'm game." He saluted the two men with his flask. Arlyan responded with a salute of his own, and Alistair let out a whoop from his log.

"Excellent!" said the Templar, "I'll start. Never have I ever met a sober dwarf!"

_x.x.x.x.x_

The campfire had begun to die down, but the wine was still flowing and merriment filled the crisp night air. Arlyan relaxed into the almost woolly sensation growing in his mind, taking pleasure in the light-headedness of wine and good company. The game itself was utterly pointless, but they were enjoying the chance to let go of the strains of the road, and to just... be.

"Okay," Arlyan started. "Never have I ever worn a dress."

Alistair wavered on his log with a pained look on his face. Grimacing, he looked pointedly at the other Warden, "You're going to insist that Chantry robes count, aren't you?"

Arlyan let out an explosive laugh. "Maker, yes! In your case, Alistair, they most certainly do!"

Wincing, the Templar shook his head and took a swig of wine. Narrowing his corn-blue eyes, he raised a finger to gesture at his companions. "I hate you. I hate you bo-" His rant was cut short as Zevran also drank from his flask. Alistair's mouth opened in surprise. "Really? You've worn a dress?" A big grin spread across the blonde Warden's face. "You, ser," he pointed at the assassin, "are a legend. Arlyan, I shun you. Real men have worn a dress!"

The dark-haired elf chortled at him over the fire. Raising his hands in mock-capitulation, he jested, "I surrender! My elvish city charms cannot compete with the unbridled masculinity of wearing a dress."

The trio broke out into childish laughter, and relished in the utter inanity of each other's merriment. Alistair placed his flask on the ground and placed a hand on each knee. A mischievous glint shone in his eyes and a smirk hovered around his face.

"Okay. Now remember, truthful answers, on your honour as an assassin or a gentleman – or both. Never have I ever had lascivious thoughts about a certain deviant apostate from the Wilds," he said, and nodded his head towards Morrigan's tent.

Arlyan groaned and covered his face with his free hand. "Now that is just the kind of question I should have expected from you, Alistair."

A devious smile blossomed on the Templar's face, "Ah, but it's a question you have to answer, my shy, elven friend."

Arlyan rolled his eyes and turned to Zevran for moral support, but instead found the other elf looking at him with a serious, intense expression on his face. Defeated, he looked back to Alistair, "No, my friend - I leave such fancies to you alone, I think." He noticed the assassin visibly relax from the corner of his eyes, "Is that right, Zevran?"

The Crow shuddered, and briefly closed his eyes. "Most certainly. Daughters of Witches do not make for healthy bedfellows the morning after – or so the legend goes."

Arlyan found himself nodding. "Now that is a sentiment I will drink to." Alistair shook his head at the two elves as they both took a long gulp from their flasks.

"So, Alistair." The pale elf's face took on an innocent expression. "Here's the thing. Never have I ever had a homoerotic pillow fight in the middle of a Chantry dormitory which left me reconsidering my sexual orientation."

All pretence of innocence was lost, as Alistair spat his wine into the dying campfire. "Now that is only part true!"

Arlyan couldn't stop the laughter, and he pointed encouragingly at the flagon in Alistair's hand. With a soft smile and a shake of his head, the big Templar took a swig of wine, "You are a wretch – you know that?" Squinting his eyes, the blonde Warden raised a hand to his brow, "Ugh...I think I can see three of you. Okay. Last one: Never have I ever licked a lamppost in Winter."

Arlyan tried not to laugh as Zevran, his brows pulled together in confusion, asked Alistair, "Why would you lick a lamppost? And why in Winter? Why would you do this at any time?"

Failing to keep the laughter in check, Arlyan threw his head back, sending his raven-black hair flying as his body shook in merriment. Alistair, laughing far too hard, suddenly lost his balance and, after a nervous wobble, fell off his log. The dark elf clutched his hands to his breastplate as hilarity ached painfully in his chest, and watched his friend rolling around on the ground – trying, and failing, to climb back onto the log. The blonde Warden let out a very un-manly high pitched giggle, which sent the two elves into a fresh fit of hilarity.

"I've lost my log!"

Zevran gulped a breath, his eyes dancing, "I think you've lost more than that my friend!" he chuckled. Finally finding purchase on the elusive stump, Alistair hoisted himself upwards and struggled to his feet. He stumbled slightly, and groaned to himself.

"You know what, Zevran – I think you might be right." Stifling a yawn, he covered his mouth with his hand before waving at the other Warden. "Arlyan, I yield. See you both in the morning – if my head stays still..." Trying to take a bow and failing, the Templar saluted the two elves and shuffled, meanderingly, back to his tent.

Arlyan chuckled and shook his head, raising his flask to his lips and taking a long, slow, drink. Letting out a deep, satisfied sigh, he slunk down onto the ground and rested his back against the rough log behind him. Placing the wine beside him, he crossed his hands behind his head and stretched his feet towards the warmth of the fire. He closed his eyes, and turned his smile upwards towards the stars, inhaling the cool night air. He heard a light shuffle of footsteps move towards the fire, and opened one eye to observe the assassin bending to throw a small piece of wood into the flames.

"Wait –" Zevran stopped short, crouching in the firelight. Giving him a puzzled look, he gently set the wood back down away from the flames. Arlyan felt a small blush crawl up his neck, and he shifted back slightly, brushing the hair away from his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he apologised in a quiet voice, "I just... like them the way they are." A bemused smile crossed the other elf's face, and he rose from the fire, moving back to his log to fetch his flask. The stubborn blush refused to recede, and he couldn't stop the words tumbling out as Zevran's footsteps came closer. "The flames, and the light from the embers, and the smell of the fire dying. I – just like it as it is. Is that strange?" He looked up as the Crow lowered himself onto the ground next to him, and ran tanned fingers through golden hair.

"No," he replied, his voice thick and quiet. "It is not strange. The dusk and the twilight, it is beautiful, yes? And there is something about the dying flames that is..." he paused, shifting his weight closer, "...I don't know – alluring. Is this how you see it?" Dark Crow lines turned towards him as Zevran looked searchingly into Arlyan's eyes. The Warden was subdued as he watched the shadows from the fading fire mirror the markings on that face, the play of the ember-light dancing with the assassin's eyes. Something fluttered inside of his chest, and he found himself whispering an answer.

"Yes. Yes, that's it." A log popped in the last few flames. Turning his gaze back to the fire, the pale elf let out a gentle sigh. The soft night-calls of the birds sang in the canopy above them, and Arlyan found himself wishing he had something poetic to say. He felt the assassin take a drink next to him, and was grateful when the silence was broken.

"So, you and Morrigan," he sipped, "you're not...?"

Arlyan turned to regard the other elf, who was staring at the last embers of the campfire. "No," he said decisively. "Not in the slightest."

The assassin nodded, loosing a golden strand from behind his ear. "Good to know. And Alistair?"

Puzzled, Arlyan turned towards his companion, tucking one leg underneath him as he changed his sitting position. "Alistair?" he repeated, "Well, he's nice enough, I guess. I hadn't really thought about him in that way."

He heard a catch in Zevran's breathing as golden eyes turned swiftly to meet his bewildered look. A smile hitched at the corners of Zevran's mouth, and his eyes took on a playful slant. "I meant," he answered, "is there anything between Alistair and our witch-like friend?"

Arlyan's face froze as he felt his stomach plummet to meet the ground beneath him.

The Crow's smile turned wicked as he returned to studying the fire. "But," he continued in a silky voice, "also good to know."

Arlyan shakily cleared his throat and reached for his flagon, taking a long sip of wine and desperately hoping that cursed blush would go away.

"Tell me about Antiva," he asked, quickly changing the subject. His mind relaxed as Zevran told him of his homeland. Talking quietly together in the ebbing warmth of the campfire, Arlyan listened as the assassin evoked images of Antiva City, his gem of the desert sand. They spoke of wine and music, of dancing and dark-haired beauties. He became increasingly aware of how the dying flames were casting a golden sheen over the other elf's skin. Zevran chuckled as he told one of his more licentious tales, and his hair began to come loose from his braid, falling innocently across the dark Crow lines chasing down his cheek. His hair glistened in Arlyan's eyes, as if the sun had fallen, drowning in soft waves, dancing with the darkness sketched down his face and, oh, Maker, he wanted to touch it.

Savouring the wild abandon that only comes with intoxication, Arlyan lifted his hand and reached for Zevran's hair. Pale fingertips brushed burnished gold, feeling like cool silk slipping under his touch. His eyes half closed as he ran his fingers through the fallen strands.

"So soft," he murmured, and suddenly became aware that his was the only voice he could hear. Eyes fully opened in a slight panic, he saw that the Crow had become deathly still. "I'm sorry, I- " He moved to draw back his hand, but Zevran quickly caught his wrist as he moved away.

Golden eyes melted into him and the Crow pulled the pale elf's hand back up to his neck, sliding their hands together and wrapping their fingers back into his hair. The silence burned between them as Arlyan's heart caught in his chest. Taking a shaky breath, he released his thumb from their entwined hands and ran it gently over the side of Zevran's face, tracing up and down the Crow lines, almost hidden under the spill of gold. The assassin shuddered as his touch brushed over the killing marks, closing his eyes and catching his bottom lip in his teeth as he submitted to the Warden's caress. Seeing him looking so vulnerable, a heat flared in Arlyan's breast. Something in the reaches of his consciousness was telling him he should stop, but then golden eyelashes opened to reveal black pupils flushed with desire, and all attempt at reason was lost. Zevran freed his hand and raised it to his face, pushing the blonde hair back behind his ears before covering the other man's hand with his own. The scent of sandalwood drifted out from sun-stroked skin and Arlyan's head began to spin.

Suddenly, the assassin jerked out of his embrace, knocking Arlyan's had away from his face. Eyes narrowed to predatory slits, the Crow whipped his head around to stare into the camp. Shame and disappointment engulfed Arlyan as he gulped down a breath of air, feeling hollow in the pit of his stomach. A squeeze of his hand dragged him out of his turmoil, as Zevran nodded past the campfire.

"Alas, my friend," he intoned darkly, "we were not alone..." Coming around, Arlyan followed the assassin's gaze and saw the slight ruffle of the folds of Morrigan's tent. "It seems that perhaps our Witchling is more interested in you than you believe." Dark eyebrows narrowed as he frowned at the thought.

The idea of Morrigan watching them worried him – and he wasn't quite sure why. Zevran's hand dropped from his, and came up to brush lightly against his cheek before moving away. "I think, under the circumstances, that this might be best saved for another time, yes?" The Crow artlessly raised himself from the dry ground, and began slowly moving towards his tent.

Nodding, Arlyan also stood. Dusting himself off, he walked past the last glow of the embers. Pausing for a moment, he turned back to look at the elf through the dancing shadows.

"Zevran?" he called out, and the assassin looked over his shoulder at him, "Goodnight."

A small smile showed in his golden eyes, and he dipped his head at the Warden, "Goodnight."

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_I wrote this chapter while listening to "The Crow & The Butterfly" by Shinedown - a very apt track for Zevran - and also "The Fire in Your Eyes" - an old Israeli Eurovision entry from 2007. I didn't realise how appropriate it was until I looked up an English translation of the Hebrew after I'd finished writing:_

_"It's hard, it's hard when a longing in front of the moon_ / _Is here for a while and then escapes, the crying is chasing after it_. _Sometimes the wind brings a good, familiar smell_, /_ Strokes now, listening / __To you singing._

_Come along, come along / __See the fire in your eyes_ / _And you come with me, with me_._ / Sometimes the wind brings a good, familiar smell_, / _Strokes now, listening."_

_Anyway, as I said, I'd love to know what you think of this chapter - if you have time, a review would be lovely...  
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	4. Spirals Splintered

_Oh dear... stubborn, blind, snarly males. Was meant to be a small, entertaining pub break - alas, it didn't turn out that way. A little artistic licence with the architecture here, but hopefully you'll forgive me when the next chapter comes._

Disclaimer: _Zevran and Dragon Age belong to Bioware. As much as I'd love to steal our favourite assassin, only Arlyan belongs to me.  
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_As before, sugar cakes and uncrushable pigeons to __**Sara's Girl **__for proofing. I owe you a pet rock._

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The sun had just begun to set as Zevran left the Gnawed Noble tavern. Although the barman had been friendly enough, and a useful supplier for some of his more... sinister concoctions, he could easily see why the others didn't like that place. Alistair had been quite right about the sneering arrogance of the nobility who drank there – being both elven and Antivan had prompted several hostile glares his way. Arlyan hadn't explained his dislike for the tavern, but, he thought, the antipathy towards elves was reason enough.

Moving through the emptying market square, the Crow extended his awareness of his surroundings. Sunset was a dangerous time to be out in a town such as this, with its dark, secluded alleys and villainous opportunists on the prowl. Something tugged at his senses as he felt eyes staring at him. He turned in the dust-dry dirt and caught a silhouette of a stocky, bald-headed man vanish into the tavern behind him. Something about the figure was very familiar – he couldn't quite put his finger on where he'd seen him before, but it was certainly someone he knew. Which, in Ferelden, could never be a good sign.

Picking up his pace, he walked past the crumbling Chantry walls and made for the gate to the dockside. Although it was as crooked as taverns get, at least The Pearl made no qualms about it; everyone who patroned there knew exactly what to expect. He let a smile light his face. Perhaps his evening wouldn't be so quiet after all.

_x.x.x.x.x_

He smelt The Pearl before he saw it. The small wooden sign, chipped and creaking in the wind, was nothing compared to the announcement made by the smell of festering ale that clung to the tavern's walls. A salty breeze swept the worst away and he pushed open the door. Running his eyes over the various sailors, bravos and whores, he spied Alistair seated alone at one of the tables towards the rear of the tavern, tucking heartily into the dish in front of him. Zevran gently shook his head with a smile; just like Alistair to pick the only tavern in Denerim that served cheese ploughman's. He stepped forward to join his friend, but stopped himself as he saw Arlyan come out from one of the back rooms - and he wasn't alone. Curious, he hung back to see the Warden's companion, and – surely not...

She laid her hand on the pale elf's arm, wrapping her hand around him to feel the muscle underneath. He couldn't hear what she said to the Warden, but she leaned in closer and whispered something into his ear. Arlyan smiled warmly and raised his arm to clasp her shoulder, shaking his head with a small laugh. Sharing the joke, the woman ran a tantalising hand down his arm before taking his wrist and raising it to her lips. Wine-coloured hair fell over her face, but didn't do enough to hide the flush on her cheeks.

He knew that look. He had seen that colour rise on her face before—once, years ago. Quickly turning to look at the Warden, Zevran saw the smooth, pale countenance was also flushed. As Arlyan raised her hand to his lips in return, and Zevran clearly saw the picture drawn before him, something wrenched inside him, and he couldn't hold back the bitterness rising in his throat. He forced himself into a state of calm and walked over to greet them.

Green, feline-like eyes widened at the sight of him, and she released the man in her grasp. She recovered quickly, perfect eyebrows narrowing as a small scowl crossed her face.

"And look who we have here!" she voiced. "Come to apologise for leaving me bereft of my lord husband and then vanishing without a trace?"

Surprised, Arlyan turned towards him and took an involuntary step forward. Zevran swallowed the sour taste in his mouth, but didn't allow the Warden to close the distance between them. He caught the flicker of pain in Arlyan's eyes and ignored it, turning to the red-haired beauty at his side.

His voice turned brisk as he answered, "You know it was just business, Isabella. Business that turned out well for you, I see - you inherited the ship, I take it?" He steeled himself as she ran a hand seductively over her hip and scanned every inch of him with her eyes.

Her gaze softened, and a playful smile hid in the corners of her eyes. "Hmm. I suppose I never really did like the greasy bastard. And _The Siren_ treats me far better than she ever did him." The smile began to spread for real now, and she fixed him with her gaze, as if trying to pin him with a look. He felt Arlyan shuffle next to him.

The Warden glanced from Isabella to him, and laid a light touch on Zevran's arm. "You two obviously have some catching up to do," he said, a sad smile traced across his face. "I'll leave you to it. Isabella," he turned to the redhead, "thank you again." With a small nod, the Warden slid away from them to join Alistair at the back of the tavern.

Zevran watched the dark elf move away. A hand wrapped itself around his shoulder and she sighed lustily into his ear. "Now that elf can do fabulous things with his hands." Zevran stiffened at the comment, and he turned his gaze to fix her with a demanding glare. A laugh cascaded from dark cherry lips, "Don't tell me you're jealous, Zev?" A sensual smile lit her eyes and she ran a slow finger across his spine, trailing downwards towards his hips.

A flick of the wrist, and he caught her hand, holding tightly enough to elicit a sharp breath from her throat. His eyes turned fierce as he drew her hand away. "My dear Isabella," he crooned, "surely you know me better than that?"

Angry eyes held his stare for a few moments, then passed over him to look across the breadth of The Pearl. Refusing to follow her gaze, he clenched his jaw and waited for her to look back to him. Her eyes widened a little and a slow smile crept up her face. Puzzled, he released her wrist and pursed his lips in an unspoken question.

"Oh no, Zev," she chuckled. "If you don't know, I'm certainly not going to tell you. That would ruin all the fun." She let out an uncharacteristically feminine giggle. Astonished, the assassin was left utterly speechless as she grasped both of his shoulders to place an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "Look after your Warden, Zev," she said as she pulled away. "And ask him to show you what he did with his hands." She gave him a sly wink and saluted him goodbye. With one final look to the back of the tavern, she ignored his questioning glance and sashayed out of the tavern door.

_x.x.x.x.x_

Arlyan sat in a chair beside Alistair and let out a very heavy sigh. His friend paused in devouring his ploughman's and reached across the table to tap the elf's wrist.

"Are you okay? The training wasn't that hard, surely?"

He forced a smile at the Templar, and rubbed the back of his neck with his hands. "No, the training was fine, it's just –" he paused.

Alistair put down the fork in his other hand and prompted the elf to continue. "Just...?"

Grey eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then looked down at the table. "I... Well, I think my tutor might be otherwise occupied for the time being," he explained, with a nod behind him. Alistair followed the gesture and saw the Captain caressing the Crow at the other end of the tavern.

He cleared his throat with a discreet cough. "Oh – I see."

Still staring resolutely at the table, Arlyan nodded, turning his head downwards to cover his face with his hair, hands folded in front of him. The edge of a plate came into his field of vision as Alistair offered to share his food with him. Turning his eyes to his friend, he let out a small, sweet smile.

"You're sharing your cheese with me? I must look terrible!"

The large knight chuckled, "Well, I wouldn't go that far – actually, strike that – yeah, you look awful. And lunch, dinner in this case, _does _make everything better..."

Shaking his head at Alistair's silliness, Arlyan took a small morsel from the plate and popped it into his mouth. Satisfied, the knight grabbed another chunk of cheese and grinned at him.

"So, I sorted us out a room each," Alistair continued. "Morrigan refused to even walk through the door, they wouldn't let Wulfstan in, and Sten said he'd rather stay at camp with the dog. I wasn't sure what to do about Zevran, so I left it for him to sort out."

The elf turned to spare a glance back at the assassin, watched Isabella melt into the curve of his back, and quickly looked away. "I think he's sorting that out right now." It stabbed at him that he couldn't keep the sullen tone from his voice, and tried to shake it off.

He failed. The heavy emptiness in his stomach ate at him. He stretched his hands out across the table, taking comfort in the solid reality of the rough wood under his palms. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. He should have realised this earlier. He concentrated on the feel of the grain of the table and thought about it rationally. He shouldn't be upset with anyone but himself. The wood caught under his hands as a splinter dug itself into his palm. The realisation came in shockwaves. He pressed his hand harder onto the wood, urging the splinter in deeper, trying to distract himself from the truth singing in his mind. The pain spilled through his palm and he let out a grim smile. It would only have complicated things anyway.

Belatedly, he heard Alistair whispering at him, "Mate, eyes up. Seriously..!"

Snapping back to attention, he realised too late that the Templar had been trying to warn him of the presence he could now feel standing over his shoulder. With a small wince, he signalled the question at his fellow Warden, who answered with his lips pressed in a tight nod. Steeling himself, he waited for the figure behind him to say something.

The voice came, soft and deadly. "You have a very nasty splinter there. You should take more care with yourself."

Bracing himself, Arlyan lifted his eyes to meet the golden stare waiting for him. The Crow and the Warden held each other's gaze, and the silence stretched between them, neither willing to back down. A heavy hand suddenly rested on his shoulder, and Arlyan was forced to break the stare. He found Alistair standing by his side, shifting his stance to cover the smaller Warden with his body.

"If you're okay," he said with hardened eyes, "I'll sort out our gear upstairs."

The dark elf understood the unspoken question, and forced some warmth into his face. Nodding, he placed a hand over the one on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring clasp. Blue eyes searched grey, and the Templar's hand gave a final squeeze before he left the table.

"So, I see you have had the pleasure of Isabella's company." The Crow's voice was cool and nonchalant as he lowered himself onto Alistair's chair. "She had some rather flattering things to say about you. I must say, I'm impressed. You must be extraordinarily skilled – she is a most demanding woman." The tone of his voice was light in Arlyan's ears, but his eyes painted a very different picture.

Arlyan met the glare, letting the fierceness burn into him. A swift pain stabbed at his hand as he felt the splinter notch deeper into his skin, and reality closed around him all at once. He took a deep breath and steadied himself to say the words he knew had to be said.

"Zevran," he began, "there's obviously some history between you two, and I want to apologise." The assassin lowered his eyes in a scowl, but the Warden held up his hand to stave off any comment. "If I'd known there was someone important to you, I wouldn't have even considered that we..." he trailed off, looking for the right way to describe what had obviously never been. "Look, it doesn't matter," he said, shaking his head. "The point is, I'm sorry to have put us in this position. You deserve an apology - for just now, and for the other night. I utterly misjudged where I stand and that was completely inappropriate of me. It won't happen again; you have my word."

He swallowed the agony rising in his throat and nodded his promise at the Crow. He couldn't, just couldn't, bring himself to see the scorn in the other man's eyes. With regret aching in his chest, Arlyan turned resolutely to head up towards his room.

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_So, it looks as though lots of you have had a read of Spiralling. Seeing as this is my first serious fanfiction, that's remarkably encouraging! It would be great to hear what you think, so please review! Sugary cakey goodness for every reviewer!_


	5. Spirals Soothed

**Disclaimer**_: As much as I'd love for Zevran to exist solely in my head, he really belongs to Bioware. Dragon Age is theirs, but Arlyan is mine!._

_As a caution, this hasn't been Beta'd. If you spot any mistakes or glaring character inconsistencies, please let me know (gently!) and I'll alter the chapter. _

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Zevran watched Arlyan walk away, glared for a little longer, and then settled in his chair to sulk. Yes he was angry, yes he was a little bitter, and yes, he could admit it to himself, he was more than a tad jealous. Truth be told, the apology had shaken him a little; something about Arlyan's words just didn't sound right. Ah well, he thought, leaning back in the chair and stretching his legs out under the table. It didn't matter. At least Isabella would also be swabbing below deck alone tonight. Granted, it was a puerile and immaterial victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.

Snorting at his own self-wallowing, Zevran let his senses take in the rest of the Pearl. Increased awareness of one's surroundings, and especially the people in it, was a habit he'd developed out of necessity in his training as a Crow. Now, however, it was just as much about amusement as it was for survival. He was enjoying the hugely exaggerated tales of a rather large, bearded human to his right ("Six times. Aye, I know! But then, see, the missus' sister came over and she had this friend with her...") when he caught the edges of a conversation that drew his attention. Away from the inflated, fictional conquest, propped up by the side of a large, wooden door to his left, a burly-looking man was talking to a thuggish, yet merry fellow, splotched with spilled ale and carrying an inebriated smile; talking about elves.

"Did you see that knife-ears?" the burly man asked. "Bloody well held his own, he did! I couldn't believe it!" The familiar slur reached Zevran's ears, but he knew better than to rise to it. Intrigued, he shifted his position in his chair and rocked it backwards to hear them better.

"I know what you mean," slurred the other man. "Thought he nearly had her beat at one point – who'd have guessed that lanky elf would be a match for Isabella! Fenced like a demon!"

The front two legs of Zevran's chair came back down to the floor with a swift thud. He'd _fenced_ against her. That's why they were both so flushed; it hadn't been sex, it had been swordplay! Resting his elbow on the wood of the table, Zevran sunk his head into his hands and groaned. In his foolish, irrational, jealous haze, he'd forgotten Isabella was a duellist. She'd given Arlyan a duelling lesson. And he'd acted like a complete idiot! No wonder she'd laughed at him as she'd left. A frown curled at the edges of his eyes, however, as he remembered the Warden's face before he's walked away. In his own self-pity, Zevran had failed to see the abject bleakness of the expression for what it really was. Anguish. Rejection. Self-loathing.

With a sharp intake of breath, Zevran ran the words of Arlyan's apology back through his mind. It hadn't been about Isabella at all, but about _him._ In those brief, fleeting words the Warden had handed Zevran his darkest desires in one moment and dashed them against the ground in the next. Running his hand over his face, Zevran closed his eyes against his palm, breath shaking slightly as he massaged his eyelids. No, that wasn't it. Arlyan hadn't taken a thing. For the sole reason that the Warden hadn't known there was anything there to take. In his foolish, presumptuous jealousy he had driven the other elf away.

Letting out a deep sigh, Zevran became aware of a presence beside him. Looking out from behind his hand, he saw the damp cloth mopping the table and had to jerk his elbows back to avoid being swiped. Glancing up to the hand's owner, he found himself looking up into the bright eyes of the Pearl's proprietress.

"Anything I can get for you, honey?" Sanga smiled at him.

"No," Zevran started to shake his head, but stopped rather abruptly as an idea formed in his head. "Actually, yes, there is. If it is not too much trouble, I would love to savour some of your delightful wine, and a couple of mugs as well." A winsome smile lit the assassin's face, and, with an affable pat on his shoulder, Sanga swayed over to the bar. He watched her nicely rounded figure reach over the counter, making sure that she noticed his appreciative glance before he feigned embarrassment and turned away. Flattery, combined with modesty, was a subtle combination that usually worked well for him with women. Or at least those he needed to like him.

With a gleam in her eye and a smirk on her lips, Sanga placed the wine and mugs on the table. "There y'are, honey. Are you sure there's nothing else you'd like?" Smoothing down her dress across her chest and her skirts, Sanga looked suggestively towards the back rooms. "I'm sure we have _something_ that would suit your fancy."

She laughed deliciously as Zevran faked a blush, a talent he'd perfected over the years, and he let her enjoy her victory. Shaking his head slightly, he thanked her in a quiet voice, "As delightful as I'm sure your entertainments are, I'm supposed to be having dinner with my friends here." He made his face take on a look of consternation and concern. "They both appear to have gone up to their rooms though, which is quite odd for them." Giving her his best plaintive expression, he asked "Do you think it would be alright if I took the wine upstairs to them?"

Sanga looked at him with a touch of suspicion, but, with an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, seemingly dismissed her concerns. "Well I wouldn't do this usually, but I can see you won't rest until you've checked on them." Zevran nodded, a genuinely grateful thank you on his lips as she continued. "Your friends took the last two rooms – first floor, last two doors on the left."

Rising from his chair, Zevran offered her a courtly bow, took hold of her hand and raised it to his lips. "_Encantada_, my dear. Thank you so much for your... hospitality." He held on just slightly longer than necessary, and Sanga laughed, swatting him playfully on the shoulder. "Go on, elf, get yourself upstairs before I change my mind." He grinned at her cheekily, and swept up the wine to make for the stairs.

He reached the first step and feathery wings fluttered in his stomach. As he climbed higher with each stair, the wings sank lower and heavier from feathers to ash. By the time Zevran reached the top of the stairwell, it was all he could do not to turn tail and run away. But he needed to do this. The hollowness he'd felt after walking into the Pearl was about to become a reality. He had to try to put things straight with Arlyan before the damage became irrevocable. The corridor stretched an eternity before him, but he made it to the second to last door in no time at all. Steeling himself in the lamplight, he raised steadied knuckles and knocked tentatively on Arlyan's door.

_x.x.x.x.x_

Arlyan say at the window of his room, watching his reflection against the dark. A short sigh steamed up the glass in front of him and he wondered how things were going to be different now. If they couldn't fight side by side, then perhaps it would be best to release Zevran from his oath and let him find his own path elsewhere. He knew it would be the right thing to do, but the thought of turning him away forever seemed to shatter something inside his chest. He ran his fingertips over the cool glass, leaving trails in the haze left by his breath. It was for the best, he decided, tracing slow, swirling spirals on the dark pane. He'd ask him to leave.

A gentle knock roused Arlyan from his musings. He quickly made sure his blades were within reach, and quietly answered, "Come in."

The door opened to reveal Zevran hanging edgily outside the doorframe. He was still his usual, beautiful, golden self, but there was a change to him that Arlyan couldn't quite put his finger on. His whole demeanour seemed different somehow, as if he were shrinking in the shadow of the lamplight. He hadn't moved from the edge of the door, and Arlyan realised that the assassin's shoulders were slightly cowed. His eyes were not gleaming with golden delight, but instead held a look of trepidation. He looked like Arlyan had felt earlier in the bar. Afraid.

Feeling a touch anxious, Arlyan called out to the figure at the door. "I did say come in, Zevran."

Some of the apprehension seemed to drain from the Crow's eyes as he stepped into the room. Moving slowly towards the table, he set down a bottle of wine and a couple of beaten mugs. Taking in Arlyan's position, a small frown crossed his face.

"You know, Warden, you really should not sit for too long in front of windows. They are excellent opportunities for someone to try to assassinate you."

Shaking his head with a small smile, Arlyan shifted from the window to perch on the edge of the bed, laying his blades across the covers. "As much as I appreciate the advice," he said evenly, "that doesn't seem to be the reason for your visit."

Arlyan lifted his gaze to regard the other elf with a searching stare. Still pulling into himself, Zevran seemed to be fixing his eyes to the floor. He briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then raised his head to meet the Warden's stare.

"Well, I thought I would offer to remove that splinter for you." With every word, the Crow seemed to straighten a little further, slowly regaining his normal laid-back composure. "It could affect your swordplay if you do not have it seen to, you know." The golden throat bobbed a little as he took a brief swallow, steeling his gaze back to that of the pale elf. "Especially as a duellist."

Arlyan's eyes widened at the casual remark. A slight note of alarm creeping into his voice, he started to demand an explanation. "How did –"

Lifting his hand slightly to stave off the Warden's protestations, Zevran answered calmly, "I know Isabella. Very well. Both her public and more private dealings. I know exactly what she is."

Although there was no alteration in tone to suggest anything inappropriate in Zevran's admission, the memory of the Captain running her hands over the Crow's back refused to leave Arlyan's mind. Try as he might, he wasn't able to keep the bitter note out of his voice. "Yes," he said in a surly tone, "So I saw."

Something snapped in Zevran's gaze, and the golden eyes took on a darker shade, matching Arlyan's accusatory stare with one of their own. Zevran responded in a voice just as bitter as the Warden's. "And so I too saw as I entered the Pearl." Faint lines of anger began to trace golden cheeks, making the Crow lines stand out proudly across his face. "Isabella made a point of telling me how you were absolutely fabulous with your hands."

The sarcastic retort Arlyan had been about to utter died on his lips - as his mouth nearly fell open. "But-" he stuttered, "I mean...Well, that sounds so..." he trailed off lamely. He stared at the elf opposite him, silently pleading with him to understand. Zevran's expression seemed to soften for a moment, and a familiar crinkle hovered at the corners of his eyes.

"Yes, it rather does. Which is exactly why she said it that way, I would guess." The small swallow appeared again at the golden throat, and his voice came a little quieter, "I take it that I also jumped to conclusions and that is not the reality of it?"

Arlyan's mind suddenly seemed to untangle as he realised the message implied in the Crow's words. A sharp relief filled his chest, so intense it was almost painful. With a soft smile, Arlyan smoothed out the weave of the bedspread and pulled himself up. Taking a few tentative steps, he walked over to the small, round table and pulled out a chair. "No," he said, gesturing for the Crow to sit down, "that's not the reality," and savoured the warm smile that sat opposite him. Reaching for the wine and mugs, Arlyan pulled out his dagger to uncork the bottle and winced as the glass pressed against the splinter in his palm.

Raising his hand to suck at the base of his thumb, he was startled when a tug on his fingers brought it back down to the table. Zevran reached to take Arlyan's hand between his own, and strong fingers pushed with the grain of the splinter. As Zevran pressed into the soft mound on his palm, the small sliver of wood began to surface. Finally, with a quick pinch, the splinter was snatched away.

"There," Zevran smiled. "Unblemished." The Crow pulled his hands away and Arlyan repressed a shiver as Zevran's thumb smoothed over his palm. Shaking off his own silliness, Arlyan reached once again for the wine bottle and pulled out the cork.

"Well," he chirped, pouring a generous measure into both mugs, "I feel this requires a toast." He reached out his arm and slid one mug over to Zevran, before raising his own in a ready salute.

Golden eyes met grey with a small sparkle, and the Crow grinned at him. "Very well," Zevran smiled, "_En elogios para tus manos_* – for swordplay and uninjured hands!"

"No," Arlyan countered, "for blessed misunderstandings." And, taking delight at the surprised pleasure on Zevran's face, lifted his mug to his lips and took a long, slow, drink.

"So, my dear Warden," Zevran continued, "if you don't mind my asking, what exactly was the reality of our Captain's comment?"

Arlyan looked over the assassin as he placed his mug back to the table, but couldn't see any signs of mistrust or wariness in the Crow's face, just an amused curiosity. "Oh," he replied with a small shrug of his shoulders, "I beat her at cards."

The Warden was startled out of his comfort zone by the hard thunk of Zevran's mug connecting with the table. Concerned, he took a swift look at the assassin and saw a look of astonishment on the other elf's face.

"You did what?"

"I beat her at cards. " Arlyan repeated, confused. "Is that bad?"

Zevran shook his head as if clearing out dust between his ears. "No, but – no-one beats Isabella at cards! How in Maker's name did you manage that?"

Arlyan could feel the slight blush rising across his cheeks. "Well," he started, "to be honest, it wasn't very fair." He looked up at Zevran's face, and saw the Crow hanging on to his every word. "You see," he continued, tying to fight down the embarrassment, "I cheated. I caught her loading the deck, and I got a little angry. So I er-" he fumbled, "I palmed a few of her cards." Arlyan felt himself wince with his confession, and braved a glance at the man opposite.

Zevran's face was one of utter disbelief. Again, he shook the imaginary mind-dust away, sending his braids swirling over the tips of his ears. "So let me get this straight," he pointed, "You caught her cheating," Arlyan nodded, "then you cheated back." Shamefacedly lowering his eyes to the table Arlyan took a breath as if to justify himself, then released it and nodded once more. "And you did all of this, against Isabella, without getting _caught?_"

Pursing his lips in a slight grimace, feeling thoroughly guilty, Arlyan nodded one last time. "Well... yes."

Arlyan looked up as Zevran released an explosive sigh. "Maker's breath!" the Crow exclaimed. Delight fired up in those golden eyes, and they turned to regard the Warden with a newfound respect. Zevran let out a warm laugh and reached out to clasp the pale elf's arm. "Now this I have to see!"

Arlyan sat with an amused frown across his face as Zevran rose out of the chair and headed towards the door.

"You wait here," ordered the Crow, "and I'll get some cards from Sanga. Then you have to teach me every trick you can!" With a small shimmy of his hips, the assassin danced out of the room, leaving Arlyan smiling indulgently at the laughter trailing away down the corridor.

* * *

* In Zevran's toast, "En elogios para tus manos", Zevran almost repeats Isabella's suggestive phrase. What he's actually saying is "In praise of your hands"... and we all know where they'd like to be!

_I owe everyone abject apologies for this being posted very late. My only excuse is a crisis of confidence; I don't seem to be satisfied with any of my writing at the moment, believing everything I write is lacking. If you can spare a minute, please review - I'd be more than happy to look at altering this chapter from your suggestions. _

_ I know this is a short one, but I wanted a small interlude from all of the stubborn snarly maleness. It'll be back to normal in the next post. Yay angsty elves! Thanks for sticking with this so far! x_


	6. Spiralling Darkly

_Rather enormous apologies for the delay in posting this out to you. The last few months have been rather testing to say the least, so I've had something of an embargo on my non-academic writing. Though I have been very encouraged by the number of you who have added this to your watch list - that really pushed me to get this done. Suffice to say, the next update will likely take some time, but I'm falling in love with these two all over again - and that can only be a good thing. :)  
_

Disclaimer: _Written for fun, not for profit. Alas, Dragon Age doesn't belong to me._

_Warning in this chapter for mild almost-sex, and also some rather nasty gore. As usual, many thanks to **Sara's Girl **for proofing - Bagpuss sends a yawn out just for you. x  
_

* * *

A puff of feathers flew into the sunlight, dancing with the dust motes in the air. The abused pillow was hit again with a soft thump, and a tanned fist _whuffed_ it into shape. The assassin turned under the sheets with a discontented growl. His face buried into the feathers, he stretched out long legs to twist around the linen, savouring the satisfying sigh the sheets made before finally admitting defeat. There was no denying it. Zevran was feeling irksome. Rolling onto his back, he brought his arms to rest under his head and harrumphed into the morning light.

It had all been going so well. Last night had been easygoing and sweet, and, if he wasn't mistaken, Arlyan had enjoyed it just as much as he had. He'd wager that the carefree laughter they'd shared over the card game was a rare pleasure for the Warden; certainly it would be a memory that would always bring a smile to his lips. They'd played a few honest hands, holding out for just a short time before Zevran had starting cheating outrageously – the pale elf always catching him with a bright laugh. And so this morning saw him stretched out in Arlyan's bed, languishing in the feel of the soft sheets slipping over his skin. It was just a shame Arlyan wasn't in the room at all.

A heavy sigh escaped him as the memory of last night played through his mind. The words had just seemed to flow from the Crow's mouth: "Warden, it's very late, and I will openly confess that I do not relish the prospect of returning back to Sten and Morrigan at the camp. Would you mind if I shared a corner of your room for the night?" He'd been thrilled when the Warden had happily agreed, offering his bed to the other elf. No, the reason he was so put out this morning was the sentence that had followed afterwards: "I'll just bunk in with Alistair next door; he won't mind." And so, with a quick sweep of his blades and a smile, the Warden had wished him goodnight and vanished through the interconnecting door to Alistair's room. Disappointment did not taste sweet at all.

Puffing out his frustration, Zevran watched the spirals flutter in the sunlight. In truth, perhaps it had been too much to hope for, but, damn it, he'd hoped all the same. His legs brushed across the cool side of the bed, and he flipped over once more, relishing the change in sensation. Threading his arms underneath the pillow, the assassin ran his tongue over his lip as his thoughts drifted to the pale elf. Would Zevran have been left curled up in one of the cushioned chairs? Or would Arlyan have shared the bed if he had stayed?

A predatory growl escaped the golden throat as he imagined Arlyan curled around him. He conjured up an image of pale skin covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, silken to the touch, arching underneath him; he smelled the tang of sweat and leather as he ran his hands over firm shoulders and through ebony hair, grasping to bring gray eyes, half-lidded with lust, closer to his face. Maker, he could dream of the desire he yearned to see in those eyes, flushed with want, as he closed the distance between them with a kiss. A low moan thrummed through his chest, and Zevran felt himself pressing hard into the sheets beneath him. This would never do! He hadn't frotted into a mattress for release since his first hard-on. No, slowing down, he raised himself gently backwards to slip a practised hand under the covers, trailing lightly over his ribs to snake down past his navel. Lowering his eyelids, a secretive smile crept across his face as he continued lower, brushing against the silken lines of fabric and flesh. The assassin took a satisfied breath of anticipation as his hand dipped to the base of that pooling heat, when a wailing sound threw him from his attentions.

Zevran froze, cautiously whirling himself out of the bed, listening carefully as he grabbed his breeches and pulled them up over his hips. A deadly stillness came over the Crow and he slowly, deliberately, reached for his twin blades. Just as he thought the tortured sound had ceased, a soul-shattering scream rang through the walls, and the assassin, for once, knew fear. The scream was coming from the next room.

* * *

_The black stone echoed darkly under his feet. As he made his way deeper into the cavern, waves of cold putrescence smothered the night air, cloyed with the too-sweet smell of roses. And death. He continued deeper into the darkness, slowing as the stone became slippery underfoot. The walls dripped with something cold and wet, sticking to him as he cast out for something to steady himself and he snatched back his hand. Slime, excrement, blood – it was too dark to tell what Gods-awful substance slicked about the tunnel. A slight purple light flickered ahead of him, casting shadows between the narrow cavern walls. He could make out clumps of rock lining the sides of the stone floor, and the sickening, rose-like scent reared up into his nostrils. Breath coming heavy, he went further down into the cavern and the light grew stronger. Shuffling a step at a time to keep his balance, his progress was interrupted by a large object lying on the floor. In the dim glow, he could make out the chewed carcass of an animal, akin to a large dog. There was little of the skull remaining, simply a bloody mess of broken bone and sinew in tatters at his feet. The limbs had scant fur remaining, the rest of the remains picked clean by whatever had devoured its flesh. Stepping over the remains, he continued slowly towards the light._

_His footfall sloped through the squelch of the cavern beneath him, stale coldness curving around his cheekbones as the moved further into the cairn. A distant clamour reached his ears, a soft thrashing reaching him in the darkness as the light grew stronger. In the mauve haze, he made out a set of armour propped up against the blackened wall. The size of a giant, great gashes ran through the chainmailed chest; dried blood pooled around the tears. This was no suit of armour – this was once a warrior. His gaze was drawn to the blank space where the sword arm should be. Tattered globules of flesh patterned the jagged remnants of the shoulder, and it became clear that the warrior's arm had gone the same way as its head. He swallowed, trying not to taste the dying roses on the air, and made his way steadily towards the light._

_The purple glow pulsed more heavily, and the cavern walls began to widen as he moved deeper into the cairn. The sickening air seemed to swirl more fiercely now, as if purposely stinging at his eyes, carrying the scent of decay to his nostrils. His foot jarred with something hard, and he threw his arms out to keep from falling. Carefully pushing forward, he found the ground strewn with more obstacles, discarded bones and weaponry slowly becoming visible in the growing balelight. Suddenly, sounds of slow movement reached sensitive ears and he froze. Images of the eaten beast and ravaged giant invaded the space behind his eyes, and he cautiously lowered his hand to his sword. The cold hilt of the blade a steadying comfort,__he searched the darkness of the cavern for predators. A ways further in, a large shape was moving slowly on the ground, trembling close to the stone of the wall. Warily making his way closer to the quivering mound, he recognised the sound as troubled, rasping breathing._

"_Brother?" _

_The broken exhalation stunned him to immobility. Eyes adjusting to the change in the light, he looked carefully at the source of the voice and took in the tarnished, dented armour, just making out the sigil of the Templars underneath the grime and filth left by the cavern. Trying not to gag from the smell of sickly sweet putrescence, he moved closer to the tortured knight. His eyes trailed over the fouled breastplate to the left arm, missing its greaves with dark blood covering the lower limb – gnawed and broken to near-nothingness. In a feat of strength and sheer determination, the knight heaved himself up with his remaining arm to lean against the grime-covered wall. The legs, he noticed, were missing from each knee down._

_Swallowing his remorse, he realised he had yet to respond. "Sir," he spoke, "I'll do whatever I can to help you, anything at all. But I'm afraid I'm no Templar." Remembering the remains he'd passed, he bent down to move closer to the knight, "If you were expecting someone from your Order, I'm sorry to say I suspect the worst."_

_The dark, matted head shook as if in spasm, and a wave of guilt washed over him. He moved his hand out quickly to steady the knight's shoulder, offering a scant source of comfort against the despair. The breaths became harder and the Templar tried to raise his head. The balefire lit up the stricken face, and he saw that the dark hair, or what he had seen as dark hair, was not dark at all, but light strands matted with blood. Suffering eyes attempted to open, but only one made it. The other, bruised, swollen, bloodied and cradled in a broken eye-socket remained unmovable. The open eye blinked itself into focus and rose to search his face._

"_No," the voice rasped, "no Templars. Just friends. Friends who are lost." The bloodshot eye glistened for a moment, desperate to shed impossible tears. Lit by the purple shimmer, it gazed imploringly into his soul. "Don't be lost, Warden. Brother." The balefire flared and the eye that pierced into him was a cornflower blue._

_Bile rose in his throat as he recognised the broken form of his fellow Warden, king, and friend. He collapsed to the ground on his knees and a cry tore from his lips, echoing across the dripping walls._

"_Oh, Alistair..." his voice thick with tears, "Oh, Ali, what did they do to you?" Hands reached out to touch the shattered Warden, but wouldn't move any further; why wouldn't they move? His whole body began to shake as he matched the mangled forms of the "beast" and the "giant" to faces he knew, to friends who were well and truly lost. Caught in a spiral of his own grief, he nearly missed Alistair's voice carrying to him once more._

"_Please," the whisper reached him, "finish this. Don't-" the voice broke off, thick with sorrow, "Don't let them beat us."_

_Shaken out of his stupor, he sharply raised his gaze to the pleading eye, knowing the abject horror was shocked onto his face. The Templar looked back, piercing him with an unwavering, desperate stare, and the broken plea came again. _

"_Please," he repeated, "Please do this. Don't let it end this way." _

_He felt the cold grime seep up to his knees as time slowed to an instant. Eyes locked with the cornflower gaze, a sob escaped his lips as he nodded in sorrow. Alistair's eye gently closed, and relief swept over the rest of his features. He felt the tears run down his face and gravely drew his blade. The sword seemed to take forever to leave its sheath, and the singing of the blade metal became a symphony of grief in his mind. He watched the Warden raise his arm to start pulling at the straps on his shoulder, trying to remove the breastplate. He leaned in swiftly, catching the remaining hand and holding it tight. Laying his blade across his thighs, he gently pulled open the leather strap, releasing the plate enough to reach the heart. Eyes blurry, he forced them into focus and looked deeply into the blue. He gripped the head between his hands, stroking quickly over the broken face and matted hair. Tears began to fall once more, and a hand grabbed at his wrists. Halted in his goodbye, he saw Alistair give a sad, sorrowful smile and nodded once more. The hand squeezed hard on his wrists, and, gulping the cold, mocking air, he let go._

_He took a couple of deep breaths, steadying himself, and took up his sword. Forcing a tearful smile, he took one last look at his friend. Breath shaking slightly, he gazed lovingly into that eye. "Maker greet you, Alistair. Go with my love."_

_The eye lit up, burning a glowing blue, and a bright smile crossed the bruised face. The Templar pulled aside his breastplate and nodded once more. "With love, brother." The head leaned back against the cavern wall, and the eye closed for the last time as the blade plunged into his chest. _

_He dropped the blade and his head fell into his hands, collapsed on the cavern floor by the body of his king. And he screamed..._

_

* * *

_

The adjoining door burst open, a furious, shirtless assassin filling the frame, ready to leap to the Warden's side. Concerned fury burned in his eyes as he swiftly surveyed the scene before him. Arlyan lay there shaking; a sheen of sweat covered his bare torso and made the ashen pallor of his skin take on a baleful shine. Black hair pasted across his face in damp strands and tears streamed down his cheeks. A slow emptiness filled the Crow as he took in the sight of the Warden clinging desperately to Alistair, small, quiet sobs wracking his trembling frame.

"Ali." Barely above a whisper, the sweet, gentle voice of his Warden was quietly broken. He stood stock still as Arlyan forced the sound from his lips, gripping Alistair's shoulder in a frantic grasp.

"Oh, Ali-I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Taking the small elf into his arms, Alistair wrapped him in a rough embrace, whispering words of reassurance in his ear. "It's okay." The shaking began to lessen, and the Templar held his companion close to his chest. "It's okay – I'm here."

Raising his eyes above the head of matted, dark hair, Alistair caught the gaze of the assassin as Zevran sheathed his blades. They searched each other's eyes for a long moment, and Alistair spoke again.

"We're both here," he amended, sharing a grim, determined smile. Zevran took a step away from the doorframe and gave the Knight a small nod of recognition. For Arlyan they would both be there. Right until the end.


End file.
